


Concealed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I can’t believe you’re an exhibitionist.' Sting’s grinning, charmed as he is always charmed to find out something new about his partner. 'Did you wanna come out here just so we could run the risk of getting caught?'" Rogue and Sting take a few minutes to appreciate each other in the cover of darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concealed

It’s not like Rogue really needs to  _try_  to get Sting alone. No one questions them being together at every moment of the day, and at this point they spend enough time in each other’s assigned rooms that even at night Rogue leaving or entering Sting’s bedroom wouldn’t occasion even a raised eyebrow. Sting’s pretty sure that their guildmates know about the two of them, even if neither he nor Rogue has ever officially  _said_  anything. So the fact that Rogue is currently shoving Sting against the shadowed wall of an alley as introduction to pressing his mouth to the blond’s jawline has only one reasonable explanation.

“I can’t believe you’re an exhibitionist.” Sting’s grinning, charmed as he is always charmed to find out something new about his partner. “Did you wanna come out here just so we could run the risk of getting caught?”

“I’m not an exhibitionist,” Rogue says, his voice coming cool and level against Sting’s skin. Then he flicks his tongue against the blond’s earring, and the contact is anything but cool. Sting’s still hissing reaction when the other goes on. “I just don’t see the point in waiting until we get back.”

“I’m not trying to stop you,” Sting says, and if Rogue is pushing him into the wall he’s doing his part too, twining his fingers around the front of the other’s cloak and yanking him in until Rogue loses his balance and falls against him. “But it’ll be more comfortable on a  _bed_.” He lets one hand go, skates his fingers around Rogue’s waist to push up against the smooth curve of his back. “And we could actually have  _sex_.”

Rogue pulls back from Sting’s neck. The nighttime lighting is poor in the corner they’ve ended up in, but it’s enough to catch sparks off the red in his eyes, to turn his pale skin ghostly with moonlight. “Why can’t we do both?”

Sting gives this offer the consideration it deserves, which is approximately two seconds. “I like that idea.”

Rogue’s smile is almost entirely hidden by the shadow of his hair and the dim lighting, but Sting knows what to look for, knows how to catch the momentary flicker of delight that creases the corner of his uncovered eye. “I thought you would.”

It’s only reasonable for Sting to lean in to kiss him, at that point. He can still taste the lingering smile on Rogue’s mouth, collect the always-startling warmth of his pale skin again fingertips and lips. Rogue’s eyes shut immediately, like they always do; Sting keeps his open a moment longer, just so he can watch the unthinking softness sweep over Rogue’s features to turn them soft and artistically beautiful for a moment. Then he follows Rogue’s lead, lets darkness take over his vision, and for a minute he doesn’t bother to remember where they are, just loses himself to the push of hands over his exposed skin and the soft give of Rogue’s shirt as he tugs it up and loose enough that he can work his own hands underneath the fabric.

If left to his own devices, Sting might just stay right where they are forever. It’s cool out but not cold, especially with the heat from the burn Rogue can always kindle in his blood, and between the texture of Rogue’s skin under his sliding fingertips and the give of Rogue’s mouth under his lips Sting is perfectly content. But then Rogue pulls back, just enough that he can take a breath, and Sting is too lost in the haze of pleasure to chase him back down right away.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks instead, winding the grey of Rogue’s shirt idly around one wrist. His other hand is skating up the other’s spine, his palm pressing flat against the smooth line of Rogue’s shoulder so he can gently urge the other in closer. “Making out is a great start, whatever it is you’re aiming for.”

Rogue’s eyes catch the moonlight for a moment, sparkle crimson with amusement before he duck his head to hide in darkness again. “It’s straightforward.” He takes a half-step closer, fits his foot between Sting’s so when he rocks his weight forward his hips bump against the blond’s. Sting can feel the shape of him through his clothes, in the moment before Rogue is leaning back again to replace his hips with fingers at Sting’s waistband. Sting’s breath catches sharp in the back of his throat, his heartbeat speeds into overtime like it’s trying to make up for lost time, and by the time Rogue has worked the button of his pants free he’s well over halfway hard.

Sting has to lick his lips to get moisture back into his mouth. He can’t seem to look away from Rogue’s mouth, the soft pout of concentration as he fixes his eyes on Sting’s clothes, and even if the other’s not quite touching him yet he can’t miss the shift under the fabric giving away Sting’s interest. “Straightforward?” It’s a weak echo, catching on the tight excitement in his throat, but it does what it is supposed to. Rogue glances up through his hair, gracing Sting with a moment of pure attention, and Sting can feel the heat in his gaze even through the curtain of darkness in front of his face.

“Yes.” There’s the faint sound of a zipper, a brief gust of cooler air, and Rogue tips his head sideways, glances ostentatiously towards the almost-deserted cross-street. “Just stay quiet.”

“Quiet,” Sting repeats. “Why, what are you --” but Rogue doesn’t let him finish, just lowers his weight down over his knees, and then the answer is abundantly clear even without the advantage of words. Sting’s throat stalls out for a moment; then  _he’s_  the one looking out towards the brighter light of the main street, his pulse pounding so fast with nerves and anticipation both that he can’t tell which is dominant.

“Rogue.” That’s a hiss, cracked into panic and desperation at the edges. “We  _can’t_ , someone might  _see_.”

Rogue touches his tongue to his lips, a flicker of movement that still succeeds in drawing Sting’s attention back to the overdark shadows in his eyes. “You were fine a minute ago.”

“When you were  _standing up_ ,” Sting points out, the difference so obvious he has trouble finding words for it. “It  _looks_  different, Rogue, there’s no way this is anything but…”

“Me blowing you?” Rogue asks. It’s not fair, the way he draws the verb slow and precise, that or the way he pairs the words with the touch of his fingers against the inside of Sting’s leg, pushing up under the edge of his boxers.

“ _Oh_ ,” is all Sting can say for a moment as his heart stutters in desperation to send blood downwards instead of to his brain. “Yes?” He takes a breath, tries to force his thoughts into order. “ _Yes_ , what if someone  _sees_  us?”

“They won’t.” Rogue sounds so  _certain_ , unruffled and unconcerned, and he’s pulling Sting’s clothes down, pushing them aside, baring flushed skin for cold air and the warm gust of his breath.

“How do you know?” It’s not a protest, more curiosity and confusion; Sting isn’t sure he could convince himself to stop Rogue at this point, anyway. He’s already leaning most of his weight against the wall, has one hand up and dragging through his hair while the other hovers an inch from Rogue’s shoulder.

Rogue looks up again, tips his head up to the light until his eyes flash lighter once more. Sting’s staring at the flicker in them, sees the moment they start to almost glow with focus; then he realizes it’s not that Rogue’s eyes are brightening as that the surroundings are going darker, as if the shadows are pulling in affectionate and close to cloak them both in darkness too heavy to see through.

“Oh,” Sting says, and Rogue smiles before he dips his head and parts his lips to touch his tongue just against the head of Sting’s cock. There’s a flare of warmth, Sting’s blood and Rogue’s breath tangling into rising heat, and Sting lets the last shreds of his resistance fall away into appreciation.

Rogue knows what he’s doing. Even with at least some of his attention given over to holding the cover of darkness around them he sets the perfect pace as he curls one hand around the loose fabric of Sting’s open clothes to hold them clear of the slow slide of his mouth. The touch of his fingers makes Sting’s breath catch on contact, even before Rogue’s tightened his hand into a gentle grip against his length so his lips brush against the side of his fingers as he comes all the way down. The unnatural darkness wipes out the details of their surroundings, turns everything except Rogue and Sting himself into hazy background, and Sting lets his attention draw sharp and focused onto the other, the warmth of his mouth and the slip-friction of his tongue. When he reaches out to draw his fingers through Rogue’s dark hair the other glances up at him, holds Sting’s gaze while the blond pushes the disguise of hair off his face to bare the clean symmetry of his features. It makes him smile, huff a breathless little laugh, and if Rogue doesn’t smile Sting can see the corners of his eyes go soft with responsive warmth.

“You’re really good at this,” Sting says without thinking. The words come louder than he intended, more obviously tense with pleasure than he expected, and he’s flinching in recognition even before Rogue pulls the heat of his mouth back.

“ _Quiet_.”  _His_  voice is hissing soft, low and so faint Sting isn’t sure how he can hear it at all. “We’re hard to see but that doesn’t do anything for sound.”

“Sorry,” Sting offers, careful with his volume this time, and Rogue rewards him by coming back in, loosening a pair of fingers so he can slide his grip down farther and take Sting deeper into his mouth. Sting can feel the heat spike up his spine, past the arch of his back and into his chest so his breathing goes shaky with tension. The cold of the wall starts to sink into his shoulders as he drops farther back, lets the rest of his weight rest against the support so he doesn’t have to trust the tremble in his knees. Rogue blinks, lets his gaze drop to the flat shiver of Sting’s stomach before he tightens his mouth and sucks as he draws his head back. Sting’s fingers form into a fist he doesn’t intend on the other’s dark, and if Rogue is blinking he’s certainly not, he can’t take his gaze away from the drag of Rogue’s mouth over the damp flush of his cock. He doesn’t realize his other hand is shoving through his own hair, doesn’t feel the sensation of his fingertips against his scalp; all his focus is narrowing to Rogue’s mouth and Rogue’s fingers and the soft slide of Rogue’s hair through his fingers. Sting’s caught in the flutter of sensation, the warmth settling low in his stomach, when Rogue slides his grip free, braces his hand against Sting’s hip instead of around his cock, and when he comes in to take Sting all the way past his lips no quantity of willpower can hold back the groan in Sting’s throat.

“ _God_.” He shuts his mouth hard to cut off any other sound of reaction, but Rogue doesn’t stop this time. Sting thinks the other’s eyes might be shut, all Rogue’s attention drawn in around the slowly increasing speed of his movements, and that’s all he can stand to watch before he has to tip his head back and shut his own eyes. That’s enough to give him a quick breath, a few words of coherency before he has to close his mouth on sound again. “Rogue, I’m going to--” He doesn’t quite finish, has to bring his teeth together so another moan comes out as a hiss instead, but Rogue moves faster and Sting takes that as encouragement. He gets his hand free of his hair, covers his mouth tight with his palm to muffle the audible resonance of his breathing, and when Rogue pulls at his hip to urge him forward and deeper into the warmth of the other’s mouth he goes without any resistance at all. Even behind his eyelids everything is sparkling into blinding white, as impossible to see past as the shadows around them; then Rogue whines, a faint vibration of encouragement, and everything in Sting goes slack and warm and blissful. There’s a sound from what feels like very far away, a humming against flushed-sensitive skin, and Sting opens his eyes to stare into the shadows as Rogue pulls away and the muffled noise resolves into laughter.

Sting brings his chin down immediately, quickly enough that he catches a glimpse of the amusement in Rogue’s eyes before the other ducks his head and brings a hand up to cover his mouth and stifle the sound.

“Are you  _laughing_  at me?” Sting asks, but he sounds more breathless than he does irritated, and then Rogue is ducking his head in to kiss his stomach and the blond is shuddering under the flutter of warmth that radiates out from the contact.

“You  _cannot_  be quiet,” Rogue murmurs against his skin, his fingers sliding Sting’s clothes back into place. “Anyone within a block knows exactly what we were doing.”

“Shut up.” Sting’s touch is gentler than his words, his fingers closing at the collar of Rogue’s cloak so he can tug and urge the other to his feet. Rogue has his chin tipped down, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to muffle the laughter still shuddering through his shoulders. “Don’t laugh at me.” Rogue keeps his head down, there’s still the faint murmur of amusement in his throat, but he doesn’t resist when Sting pulls him around by his cloak, lets the blond reverse their positions and press Rogue’s shoulders to the wall. “It’s not my fault you’re so good at blowjobs.”

“Thanks,” Rogue says, finally letting his hand fall so Sting can see the smile tugging at his lips. “I think.”

Sting leans in without letting his hold go, presses his mouth against Rogue’s lips for a brief moment. Rogue opens his mouth, lets Sting taste the lingering bitter of come against his tongue before the blond pulls back and trails his hands down Rogue’s waist as he drops to his knees.

“You’re welcome,” Sting says into the soft monochrome of Rogue’s shirt, pressing his nose in against the warmth of the other’s hip while he drags his hands up the inside of the other’s legs to find the front of his pants under the cover of too many layers.

Fingers touch Sting’s forehead, brush over the straight-line scar over his eyebrow. Sting isn’t even sure Rogue can see it properly in the deliberate darkness or if he’s just going off years of memory to guide his fingers unerringly to the mark. Sting hums in unabashed pleasure at the touch, shuts his eyes and tips his head up for the contact while he tugs at Rogue’s jeans without looking. Experience is an advantage for him as much as for the other; he doesn’t need to see what he’s doing to find his way past the cover of Rogue’s clothes, past the catch of zipper and buttons and the softness of boxers to the heat of bare skin. He can feel Rogue jerk as his fingers touch against the other’s length, grins at the reaction without pulling away. He doesn’t check to make sure they’re still hidden in darkness before he pushes the layers of fabric aside and draws the flushed heat of Rogue’s cock free so he can turn his head in sideways and lick against the sensitive skin.

Rogue  _doesn’t_  whimper, which is a minor disappointment. But he does jerk, his hips arching up from the wall so fast Sting doesn’t have time to get his mouth around his length before Rogue’s sliding against his cheek. He laughs, carefully low to keep the sound from carrying, before he grabs at Rogue’s hips, holds him in place with both hands so he can open his mouth and take Rogue in over his tongue. He’s slick against Sting’s lips, the head of his cock slippery and salty as the blond brings his head in, takes Rogue as far back as he can manage all at once. That doesn’t get a sound either -- Rogue is perfectly silent against the wall -- but the touch at Sting’s forehead shoves up into his hair and Rogue’s fingers close into a fist so Sting can feel his desperation against his scalp if not hear it in the other’s throat.

Sting moves faster than Rogue, messier and quicker, until the damp against his lips catches telltale sound off the narrow walls around them. That gets a reaction from Rogue, a hiss of encouragement or worry or both, and Sting hums just to tease him, lets all the sound Rogue isn’t making draw low and purring in his throat. Rogue drags at his hair, even the huffed quiet of his breathing skidding into silence, and Sting groans around the heat in his mouth, licks hard against the underside of Rogue’s cock so the wet suck of his lips falls audibly into the darkness of concealment.

Sting can tell Rogue’s getting close from the pull at his hair, from the way the other’s breathing has faded into tight-held tension, from the slick bitterness spreading across his tongue. Then the shadows around them drop into natural dimness, a brief flash of moonlight breaking through as Rogue’s attention falters, and Sting glances up to see Rogue’s mouth come open around perfect silence as he shudders under Sting’s hold and spills hot against the blond’s tongue.

The shadows are back by the time Sting slides back, darker and heavier as if to make up for the brief lapse. Sting might as well have his eyes shut while he pulls Rogue’s clothes back into place; he can’t see the other’s face at all until he gets back to his feet and leans in nearly close enough for a kiss.

He doesn’t close the distance right away, just bumps his forehead in against Rogue’s and inhales in counterpoint to the breathless rush of the other’s. He waits until Rogue’s breathing has steadied into a more even rhythm, until he can feel the gentle brush of fingers against his waist, before he speaks in a forced undertone.

“Did we get away with it?”

Rogue growls, very softly so it gusts against Sting’s mouth as a tiny burst of air. “Probably. No thanks to you.”

“Don’t be stingy.” Sting tips his chin up, presses his mouth against the very corner of Rogue’s. Rogue turns his head in for more in spite of his protest, drags his lips over the blond’s for a moment before Sting pulls back again to watch the crimson of his eyes. “Unless you  _don’t_  want to go back and make use of that bed.”

“Shut up,” Rogue hisses again, but he’s pulling Sting in by his hips and opening his mouth for another kiss, and none of that is a no.

It’s another several minutes before two figures step out of the alley to move down the street with impatient haste. Only once they are out of sight do the shadows in the space even out to match the faint illumination of their surroundings.


End file.
